


Remix

by imaginary_dragonling



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Foul Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 18:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13863147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_dragonling/pseuds/imaginary_dragonling
Summary: Boy Band AU





	Remix

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this fic for the 2017 Weiss Kreuz v. Saiyuki Battle on [dreamwidth](https://weissvsaiyuki.dreamwidth.org/91222.html). I thought I had two weeks more than I did, but I still posted this then because at least it got points for the Saiyuki boys. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I finally got the courage to cross post it to ao3 and many thanks to [dameofnodelicacy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DameOfNoDelicacy/pseuds/DameOfNoDelicacy) for giving me the encouragement and confidence to do so.
> 
> This fic came about when I was mulling over ideas inspired by this [prompt](https://weissvsaiyuki.dreamwidth.org/73294.html?thread=471118#cmt471118). Many thanks to the Anon who posted it. I had fun :) Also thanks to Alienatheart for the beta when it was still in a shitty draft form.

“You can’t be serious?!” Sanzo could barely control the anger threatening to explode across the conference room. He was in the presence of three of the top executives of the company. Much as he felt justified in his outburst, it would not do to lose his temper in front of them. His fists clenched under the conference table, bit down on the inside of his cheek and tried to school his expression into something closer to surprise rather than downright contempt. The assistant taking notes across the room raised a penciled eyebrow at him and Sanzo directed his scowl at her instead. Tone barely civil, he managed to grit out, “May I ask why?” and then, “I can make it solo.” Just like you know I can. Bastards.

The right-most screen flickered even as its occupant sighed, “It’s true that you have the talent, Genjo Sanzo, and some of us feel that you would do well as a solo artist as it is,” the first executive paused, looking down at her notes hidden out of the line of sight of the camera, “However…”

Sanzo bit back the scream clawing its way up his throat. However. HOWEVER. There was always a however. How many times did he have to prove himself? How many songs did he have to write, see them siphoned off to someone else’s album, hear them at the top of the charts, belted out and emoted by other voices, other artists, other others...but never his?

“However,” the second executive in the middle screen cleared his throat, “this is a directive from the CEO themselves.” Sanzo grit his teeth and cursed their name. “They feel that this would be a most, ah, interesting endeavour, and greatly believes in the success of this project.”

Sanzo considered getting up and walking out then. There had been many ‘howevers’ over the years. Each time he had asked, there was always an objection, always something not quite right, not quite ready, some planet out of alignment. He had been patient, had played the good company man, and weathered the storm of uncertainty, believed that Chang’An had his best interests at heart. The launch of a career was a tricky thing, a relaunch even more so, and, self-assured as he was in his own talent and abilities, he could not pretend to fully understand how to navigate the complexities of opportune timing or the fickleness of the masses.

But this was too much. This was a mockery of a proposition, and the insult sat sour in the back of his throat. Yet even as he longed to scoff at the news, to tear their offer into pieces and toss it back in their faces, bitter experience stayed him, kept him still in his seat and his lips silent.

As if he had passed some test, the third executive spoke up, “We see the potential of this project and agree. Many have used prior momentum to springboard their careers and achieve great success. There is no reason to believe that you cannot do the same.” The third executive inclined their head, looking at something off screen. “You are to return to your home to meet there. Good luck, Genjo Sanzo.”

The three wide screens on the wall blanked to blue and the assistant shut her notebook with a snap. Sanzo sat rigid in his seat for a moment longer before rising to his feet and striding to the ornate door without a single backward glance.

The faces in the portraits and photographs in the hallway passed in a blur and it was no time at all before he was back in the waiting room, the red and orange painted walls exuding warmth as the afternoon sun streamed through the window and picked up the gold accents of the room’s decor.

Despite the seething anger tunnelling his vision, Sanzo’s eye was immediately drawn to the sole occupant sitting nestled in one of the leather armchairs and who was dressed, impossibly, louder than the gaudiness of the room.

Feet vibrated in too big boots that nonetheless remained unlaced and unbuckled next to a bulky backpack in bright primary colours while fingers drummed an annoying rhythm on the arms of the leather armchair he was slumped in. Under an impractically large jacket, Sanzo glimpsed Usa-chan and Kuma-chan, characters from that popular video game that was the studio’s latest high profile project, on the oversized bright red t-shirt that he wore over his faded ripped jeans. The beat of latin music rang like an annoying gnat in Sanzo’s ears in the quiet of the waiting room from the oversized headphones clamped over the cap pulled low over his brow. But even through the cacophony of colour and energy, Sanzo’s attention was captured by the impossibly wide, golden eyes, staring up at him from beneath overgrown brown bangs.

“Shut the hell up.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. They hung in the air, rude, even to his own ears. Sanzo ground his teeth and refused to look away from the boy, steeled himself for the inevitable hurt or rebuke.

“You’re shining like the sun.”

Sanzo could only stare into the silence that stretched between them. And those golden eyes, perfect circles that caught the light and seemed to glow with luminosity, stared straight back.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Sanzo turned on his heel and stomped out of the waiting room, heedless of the cries following in his wake. He glared down at the receptionist who quailed and shut her mouth, watching fearfully until elevator doors shut between them. The rest of the people he passed on his way out the building gave him a wide berth, which suited him just fucking fine. Barking his address to the unfortunate driver whose taxi he got into, Sanzo leveled on last violet glare at the rear view mirror before pulling out his Marlboro cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket, scrolled down the window, and smoked three sticks before the imprint of golden eyes faded into the haze of his despondency.

He was still in a foul mood when he reached the house he called home and the front door slammed with a very satisfying bang, despite the dearth of ears to hear it. He was almost used to it. Almost.

Sanzo fumbled in his pockets and lit another cigarette and lighter, taking a long drag and holding it before exhaling with his frustration, watching as it curled around and enveloped him before dissipating into air, leaving nothing but the stench of tobacco behind.

Hold nothing, huh…

Sanzo snorted and moved towards the couch, removing his blazer and tossing it away as he flopped into the seat.

How long had he been holding on to this hope, this dream?

They had called him Kouryuu. His voice had been soothing, like the flow of a creek; gentle, silvery, light, captivating. Angelic even, with the looks to match. His rise to fame had been swift, an upward trajectory of record deals, album sales, and concert tours. He was the golden boy of Chang’An, and the sky had seemed the limit. Until his voice had broken. Then it had all come crashing down and Sanzo had learned just how quickly the world discarded those it had no use for.

Yet he’d kept the faith and Chang’An Records had kept him on its payroll, continued housing him and giving him access to some of the best vocal coaches in the industry. In return, he had kept his head down and kept working, learnt to work with composers and artists, learnt how to bend but not break to the whims of the masses, learnt how to imbue the power of emotion into words, and helped craft hit song after hit song for the record label. It had taken years, but he finally had a voice to match his repertoire of songs, had worked to master his voice, added range and depth to his baritone, and bided his time until the powers-that-be made good on their promise and finally decided that it was time to re-enter the world stage.

But not like this.

Sanzo gripped the cell phone in his pocket, was halfway to dialling the memorized number before he hit the delete button, waited for the screen to clear before turning his phone off and tossing it out of arm’s reach.

There was no getting around this. He had cooled off enough for logic and sense to gain a commanding foothold amidst the storm of impulsivity and emotion, and the truth lay plain before him now: this was the best path open to him.

He had spent enough time watching silently as stars rose, and watched, just as silently, when they fell. And the void was cold and lonely and an abyss which few returned from. While he was in a better position than most, had already tasted fame and had continued to add accolades to his name, he was, at the root of it all, an untested artist at best, a has-been at worst, and he was going to be damned if he was written off before he even had a chance to begin.

The offer was not unreasonable. Many a successful artist had started out from this position, one of many; bided their time and cultivated a following, using whatever impetus they could collect to propagate themselves further. The third executive was right, there was no reason that he couldn’t do the same. It was just infuriating that he was being treated like just another fledgling wannabe, poked off a cliff and forced to prove that he could fly before being allowed to soar.

Well, he would show them.

He understood the game, had played it before, knew that the spotlight was a fickle mistress, and the suitors lining up for her hand wound out the door and around the block. But while he still had a chance to win, he would play it. As his cigarette smouldered down to ash, so did the last vestiges of his temper and Sanzo soon found himself staring dourly at the bottom of his glass through the amber liquid of his favourite bourbon with nothing except his latest cigarette and the back of his throat burning with each swallow of alcohol. The executives had said that they would meet here, Sanzo recalled as he downed the rest of his glass glumly. Nothing better to do than wait.

The loud banging on his front door startled him. Sanzo jerked awake, looking around blearily for a moment as he tried to orient himself. The living room was dark, the meager sunlight filtering through the drawn blinds painting evening in a dusky orange glow.

Bang. Bang. Bang. His door rattled in its frame and begged to be answered before it was bludgeoned in.

Sanzo grunted and stubbed out the last of his cigarette into the full ashtray, hauling himself to his feet.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Alright, shut up, I’m coming!” Sanzo growled, wrenching the door open. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness outside before they dropped to meet a pair of very round and very familiar golden eyes.

“Ahh it’s you! The mister with the golden hair!”

Sanzo stared back. This close up, he could see the boy’s rather large ears sticking up and out the sides of his head through the mess of his brown hair. His face was pulled wide in a grin and the way he smiled, exposing both rows of teeth, reminded Sanzo rather of a monkey.

“What are you doing here?”

“Is this the Keiun Residence?”

“Yes,” Sanzo’s brow furrowed.

“They told me to come here!” the boy said, pushing a scrap of notebook paper into Sanzo’s face. “I’m here to meet Genjo Sanzo. Say mister, do ya know him?”

Sanzo plucked the rather dirty piece of paper from the boy’s paw and straightened it. It did indeed have his address and name on it. How unfortunate. Sanzo’s eye slid down the boy again, noting the oversized clothes, the garish colours, and the irritating bounciness of his visitor.

“What do you want with him?”

“I’m Son Goku, his new bandmate!” the boy said, grinning like an idiot and sticking out a grubby paw for Sanzo to shake.

Sanzo stared dumbfounded. “You’re joking. You’re my new bandmate?”

Goku’s eyes widened and then he was jumping forward and throwing his arms around Sanzo and hugging him. “Nice to meet you, Sanzo! Wow, I you’re so pretty! I really lucked out this time!”

“Get off me, Baka-saru!!?” Sanzo yelped, pushing the overly enthusiastic boy away and trying to disentangle himself from the surprisingly strong arms around his waist. Sanzo reached backwards and brought the first thing his fist closed around down on the boy’s head with a thwack.

“Oww! Hey, that hurt!” Goku clutched at his head, dislodging his cap as he rubbed at where Sanzo had hit him. Unruly tufts of hair, thick and unrestrained, sprang up in its absence and a long brown ponytail tumbled down his back.

“Tch,” Sanzo folded his arms, one hand still gripping onto the harisen he had managed to grab in his defense.

Goku eyed him sorrowfully from under his fringe. “For someone so pretty, you sure aren’t very nice.”

“Hmmph, well you should learn not to assault people like that. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”

Hands stilled and golden eyes looked away. “No, I never met my parents,” Sanzo’s grip on the fan tightened, “I got caught sneaking into a club one day. Luckily, the owner’s son was real nice and he fed me and let me play. He took a video of me and the next day, some people from the agency came to pick me up. They put me up in an apartment, but today they said that I was gonna come live here with you.”

“There has to have been a mistake,” Sanzo ran a distressed hand through his hair. “This isn’t an orphanage and I’m not a baby sitter.”

“Hey, I’m 18! I can take care of myself,” Goku’s eyes flashed and the fist on his backpack strap clenched tighter. Goku’s knuckles were thick, scraped raw and scarred over, and the tilt of his chin was defiant.

“Hmph, suit yourself,” Sanzo said, stepping away from the door.

“Hey!” Sanzo turned, his fan on his shoulder, “Does that mean you’re letting me in?”

Sanzo turned away and continued walking into the house. “Let yourself in!”

With a whoop and a bound, Goku was next to him, chattering away and bombarding him with an endless stream of questions even before the door had shut behind them.

“Hey, I’m kinda hungry, can I have something to eat? Wow, what a big house! Sanzo, do you live here by yourself? You must be rich, Sanzo! How many rooms are there in here? Can I have the room next to yours, Sanzo?”

The kid was hyperactive and ADD and Sanzo had never regretted anything so quickly in his life. He had no sooner managed to get the kid settled with a bowl of potato chips (the only non-perishable thing in his pantry he was comfortable feeding someone) when Rap Rap Rap, the knocker on his door announced the arrival of another unwanted guest.

Before he could say anything, Goku had leapt towards the door and thrown it open, revealing a tall man with crimson red hair and an over fondness of leather, chains, and eyeliner standing on his doorstep.

“Yo, Genjo Sanzo?” he drawled, waving a cigarette between two fingers in greeting. Without waiting for an answer, the redhead stepped past the threshold and set his luggage down, un-slinging the guitar case from his back. He cast an appreciative eye around the expansive entryway and whistled, “Nice digs. Didn’t think a lameass with a name like Genjo Sanzo would live in a place like this.” Sanzo’s fist balled at his sides. “Oh hello, who are you?” the redhead leered down at him.

Drawing himself up to his full height, Sanzo narrowed his eyes, stared haughtily up at the infuriating face above him and said in his iciest tones, “I’m the lameass, Genjo Sanzo. Who the hell are you?”

The shithead’s eyes widened slightly in surprise before, “Sha Gojyo,” came the lazy reply, replete with condescending smirk and the vein in Sanzo’s forehead began to throb again. “I’m sure you’ve been expecting me.”

“Never heard of you,” Sanzo snapped. Close enough to the truth. He had never heard of a Gojyo per se, but any musician worth his salt knew who the Sha’s were and from what he knew of that family tree, Sanzo had a pretty good idea who Sha Gojyo was. Not that he was going to acknowledge it. Serves the attention-seeking bastard right.

“Oh?” Gojyo said, casually flicking an errant bit of ash from his sleeve. “Well, that explains the warm welcome, and the lack of women and liquor.” Gojyo turned on his heel and flopped into Sanzo’s favourite seat on the couch, putting his boots up on the marble top coffee table before swiping a handful of chips from Goku’s bowl.

“Hey! Hands off those are mine!” Goku cried, lunging for the bowl which Gojyo lifted out of Goku’s reach.

“Ehhhh… I don’t see your name on it, chibi-saru!”

“Who are you calling a monkey, you stupid kappa!!”

“Kappa?! You’re asking for it now, kid! Ouch! Stop pulling them baka--!”

“Shut up the both of you!!!”

Ding dong!

“Ah ha ha, I hope I didn’t come at a bad time?”

All three of them froze, Gojyo released the front of Goku’s shirt, Goku let go of Gojyo’s jacket, and Sanzo shoved both of them away.

A young man smiled brightly from the open doorway, sunlight reflecting off his glasses and glinting off the silver cross on his chest as he stood straight-backed and proper, slightly baggy clothes accentuating his tall slim frame.

“May I come in?” He tilted his head and his eyes swept once over Sanzo, Goku, and Gojyo who coughed and said with a thumb towards Sanzo, “He’s Genjo Sanzo, he’s the boss.”

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Sanzo said bitterly, “Everyone else has.” He scowled at Goku and Gojyo who both had the grace to look sheepish.

“Why thank you,” the man said, inclining his head towards Sanzo and placing his bag neatly by the door as he entered.

“Say, aren’t you Cho Gonou? The guy with the sister who err...nevermind,” Gojyo stuttered to a stop under the placid smile.

“It’s Cho Hakkai now, if you please. Nice to meet you all,” he said with a wave and a wide smile that failed to reach his eyes. “You must be Sha Gojyo,” Hakkai offered his hand which Gojyo took, hesitantly. “And you are?”

“Son Goku! Did you really change your name to Hakkai?”

“Ha ha ha, yes I did. I hope it’s alright if I insist on you all calling me that instead of my old name?”

Goku turned thoughtful eyes onto Hakkai, seemingly considering his request. “I like it. I think Hakkai suits you much better,” he said seriously.

Something flickered in those keen green eyes, and the smile that Hakkai gave Goku was different yet, softer and warmer, and sadder somehow.

Sanzo looked away. Cho Gonou, no, Cho Hakkai needed no introduction. Not after his meteoric rise with his twin sister as a musical geniuses several years ago. The Cho siblings, classically trained from a young age, they made the jump into mainstream music and the public fast fell in love with them. Maybe too fast. Maybe too much.

There was an Incident, and what should have been handled quietly and discreetly turned into a media circus. Trawled through the dirt and sensationalized, Cho Kanan had spiraled into depression, eventually taking her own life. The brother had not been far behind, and Sanzo remembered hearing betting odds being thrown around about how long it would be before he would follow after her. Three years and a long rehabilitation period later, the betting pool was still open and Cho Hakkai had turned up on his doorstep. Sanzo grit his teeth. This day just couldn’t get any worse, could it?

“This is cozy,” came a voice from the doorway.

Of course it could.

“Oy, oy, is that sneer any way to greet me? Konzen, my boy…” Kanzeon Bosatsu lounged in the doorway, leaning their lithe frame on one side, a hand on their hip. And the look Sanzo threw them went from milk-curdling to death glare.

“Stop calling me that, you old hag,” Sanzo snarled, too pissed off to enjoy the looks of shock on Goku’s and Gojyo’s faces. Hakkai merely raised his eyebrows before Jiroushin, Kanzeon’s earnest and very loyal assistant sprang forward in admonishment.

“Hey, show some respect, young man! You shouldn’t talk to Kanzeon Bosatsu like that!”

Kanzeon let out a hearty laugh, “It’s alright, Jiroushin. I imagine my dear nephew has been under quite some strain these past few hours, haven’t you?” they chuckled and the harisen threatened to crumple in Sanzo’s fist.

“Wow, your aunt is the head of Chang’An Records?” Goku asked in awe.

“Only very distantly,” Kanzeon said, smiling fondly at him.

“Not distant enough,” Sanzo ground out to which Kanzeon only grinned.

“You look well, Konzen! I haven’t seen you this energetic since--”

“What do you want? Come to enjoy the show?” Sanzo folded his arms and glared at them.

Kanzeon’s smile only widened. “Of course not, I came to bring you all this,” they snapped their fingers and Jiroushin strode forward, opening his briefcase with a flourish before pulling out stacks of papers and placing them in four neat piles on the coffee table. Kanzeon sauntered over and settled in an armchair. “Your contracts. Now that you’ve all met, I think it’s best we seal the deal, yes?”

“Hang on, we’ve only just met--”

“I have to be bandmates with the dirty kappa?!”

“Oh, this is moving quite quickly, isn’t it?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Sanzo exploded and the others fell silent. “You spring them on me without warning and expect me to promise to make this work? Are you insane?!”

“Well, I did try to call you but your phone was off,” Kanzeon pointed out with a yawn. “The receptionist was going to give you all the details on your way out but I heard you stormed out of the office without so much as a glance backwards and I’m guessing you haven’t checked your email either. What else am I supposed to do?”

Kanzeon’s smile stayed fixed on their face, but the glint in their eye had hardened and told him that he had better watch what he said next. Sanzo battled with himself for a split second before saying as scathingly as he could manage, “So nice of you to drop by yourself.”

Since seeing the smug gleam in their eye would be enough to make him want to stab his eyes out, Sanzo did the next best thing and ignored them completely, scowling instead at the open entryway that had let in such disaster.

“Now then,” and Sanzo heard the crunch of the couch as Kanzeon stood back up, “I know this has been a lot for one day. Why don’t you all take the week to get to know each other. I’ll send someone over to pick up the papers and your answers then,” Kanzeon swept past them and Sanzo stubbornly avoided their gaze as they stepped up to the doorway. “Oh and boys? Try to have a good name picked out by then. Otherwise, the working title of ‘Sanzo’s Party’ is going to stick.” And Sanzo’s front door clicked shut to the gleeful laughter of one Kanzeon Bosatu, founder and CEO of Chang’An Records and self-styled Goddess of Mercy.

The show was about to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback on this fic (including concrit) is welcome. You can catch me on [tumblr](https://imaginarydragonling.tumblr.com/) or send me an email at imaginarydragonling@gmail.com
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed reading! Would love to hear your thoughts about this story!
> 
> P.S., Anyone got any ideas for a band name?


End file.
